


Six Down

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck, Scott Pilgrim vs. the World (2010)
Genre: Crossover, F/M, M/M, Multi, and a lot of other people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 05:26:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3966064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is CRUZ VANA and you can't handle this shit anymore. Luckily, you are not alone in attempting to avoid your past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Down

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea why I wrote this. I don't even like John X Karkat.

  _ **He selects a can from the cooler**_ and turns it in his hands, looking it over. Words are plastered on the label. Most of them are brightly colored, but it's the nutrition he's looking at- and not the calories, either. +5 SPD, say light black letters at the bottom, +2 WP (he figures that means willpower, but the label has no explanations of the abbreviation), +2 HP. Not enough. What other shit do they have in here? Nothing really excels in will points. Most drinks advertise speed or wisdom on the label, health, or other stupid magic stuff that he's never really understood. No willpower. His name is CRUZ VAÑA, and he sees absolutely no snackfoods or drinks that boost will more than two or three points. He's going to explode, he's so angry.

He checks the next one in line. A woman comes up behind him, puts her hands on her hips. He doesn't bother to look at her, hoping she'll leave. She doesn't. "Sir, are you going to, I don't know, buy something?" He has half a mind to stuff the drink into his pants and walk off with both middle fingers up.

"I planned to, yes."

She doesn't take that well, (meaning she inquires further), "Can I help you find something?"

He groans loudly and tilts his head back. She still doesn't take the hint. "Nope. Looking for Willpower, but I've already looked at everything twice now. Might have been nice to hear it from you that you don't have anything good about a half hour ago, but you didn't bother asking me if I needed help until now."

Vaña sets the drink back against the others in the cooler and shuts the door, turning to walk out Fine. He didn't have much money in his pockets, anyway. With his coat he's comfortable for all of three blocks down the road, when the chill starts to seep in. He can do this without willpower perks. It'll be fine. See? Just that little, shitty pep-talk probably gave him an extra will point. Probably. Turning the next corner of the frost-crusted sidewalk, he's now on the street he needs. Apartment buildings are lined up beside him, on both sides, with small yellow and white lawns in front of them. He shares one of these beaten places with a friend. One that sits on the bottom floor, on the furthest row from the street, one that lies beside the rest of the rows' trash bins. At the door he knocks once and then uses a key around his wrist to open it up and barge in. If anyone's home, they aren't in the front room where a chair, tiny television, game console and couch sit stationary. His coat is tossed into the nearest corner and he sits, obviously disgruntled, beside his best friend's armchair. He's not allowed to sit in it, lest he wants his ass kicked.

Spencer emerges from the other room with a plate balancing on his forearm, a box of crackers in one hand, and a mug of steaming something in the other. "Sup?" He asks with the slightest hint of a lisp. He's working on that with speech therapy (which is where most of their money is going). Cruz says nothing in response, arms crossed.

"I said, 'what's up', asshole."

Cruz only grunts like an upset toddler.

"Oh my god, what's wrong?" Spencer sits in his chair and crosses one leg over the other. He sets the platter on his knee and the cup on top of that. The smell of cheap tea comes from the mug. He breaks out the graham crackers.

"I have a, erm, a date."

Spencer's bewildered look may have been from Cruz's surprisingly soft voice, or his acquired pre-relationship. He doesn't specify, and instead says, "...What?"

"I have a date!" Cruz stands, kicks his shoes off, and takes a handful of graham cracker - then wanders into the kitchen. Spencer's voice follows him, "That's unbelievable. Another date?"

"What do you want me to say? 'Yeah, I'm real surprised, too'? I've always been able to get a second date." The sound of cupboard-rustling comes from the kitchen, accompanied by munching and full-mouthed speech from Spencer's tiny roommate, "I mean... As long as I'm, uh, tactical about it."

"Tactical. You mean you flat out lied to him."

"Nope! Christ, what makes you think that? I don't lie to people. You're thinking of someone else. I'm a fucking God." A brown face peeks from behind the doorway, mouth gnawing away on cinnamon graham crackers, one hand filled with a tub of peanut butter. Better live it up while he can, is Cruz's excuse.

Spencer doesn't bother arguing with him. He just sighs and shrugs. Cruz thinks about his accusation - he doesn't fucking lie to people, that's a dumb thing to do in general. He had just told John that he was, uh, not previously romantically involved with any serial killers or anything. Which is absolutely true. He'd never dated any murderers or otherwise criminally inclined. Some of them were violent and mean, but none stone-hearted. Besides, what did John care? None of his exes had been heard from for years. At least not by him. He uses a graham cracker to shovel the half empty peanut butter. He's got a date tomorrow night, but for this night, he hasn't got jack fuck, and especially no peanut-allergied cute... anyones.

There were kind of a lot of them though. Exes, that is, and only some of them were dangerous. Okay, seven of them were. He'd tell John that eventually, if all goes well tomorrow night.

After he finishes out the peanut butter and cleans up the rest of the crackers, he sits back out in the living room. This time he perches himself on the arm of Spencer's chair, and Spencer puts an arm around him. A very platonic arm. "Congrats, either way." he says.

He feels like it's a real score, that's for sure.

"What's going down?"

"Someone he knows is hosting a party or something. I'm just going as his guest. Hopefully we'll both be sober and together, not here, at the end of the night."

Spencer throws his head back and laughs. A game controller sits casually in his lap, game paused to listen to his best friend's romantic endeavors. "I doubt it. But hey, I'll take your word - And tell you not to come back here tomorrow night. I'll have someone over in your absence, since I can't handle you not being here. It gets cold on the air mattress at night." Cruz balls his hands into fists and hits Spencer's shoulder. "Fuck off. If I don't get him, I'm coming back here."

Spencer raises man eyebrow, "No. You are not."

"How about, um, fuck off, for real? And get me some damn Faygo for the road til then. My willpower is down the fucking drain." Cruz runs a hand through his hair and sits back against the chair's stuffed top. Spencer is ticking away at the controller again now, eyes trained on the screen. He mutters, idly, "Yeah, okay. I think I can manage that." his fingers flicker across the sticks, his character following his movements.  This is usually how he spends his nights - watching Spencer make tiny clicks with his thumbs on the analogs, pressing in the slightly sticky buttons on the front panel of the game controller. And that's how he liked them, sure, but there was... Always something missing.

This was very good for a Thursday night.


End file.
